Somber and Ferocious
by Saucery
Summary: Eames still gets a little thrill when Arthur calls him 'master', childish as it is to be thrilled by such things. But it's like being the owner of a magnificent piece of weaponry, or a perfectly-tamed jungle cat; Eames can't be blamed for enjoying it.


Notes: A two-part sequel to _On His Velvet Feet_, which must be read first. The title is from Jean Genet's poem, "The Prisoner Condemned to Death". Written for Glowdrops.

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**SOMBER AND FEROCIOUS**

**- Part I -**

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Saito's the most powerful man in the Japanese _yakuza_, and possibly the most flawlessly commanding, strangely honorable man in _any_ of the mafia families. Eames even _likes_ the fellow, which is why it breaks his heart, it really does, to brutalize Saito's nephew, Takada, and smash him into itty-bitty bits.

Eames is smiling when he does it.

He knows, very well, that Takada's men will be on him in approximately four minutes; this warehouse _is_ supposed to be on neutral territory, but that also means that it is surrounded - equidistantly - by sharks of every stripe and soldiers of every house. Including Saito's.

"Arthur," murmurs Eames, as he steps away from Takada and drops the pipe. He has, actually, managed to not stain his own suit. Much.

"Yes, Mr. Eames," replies a disembodied voice, from the darkness above and around him - and then that darkness is _separating_itself, or perhaps just incarnating itself in the form of a lithe, lovely, black-clad body, which curves neatly through the air before landing, swords drawn, in front of the warehouse door.

"Destroy them," says Eames.

"Yes, Mr. Eames." The swords glitter, like fangs.

Dog of war thus unleashed, Eames retires to the rickety table in the centre of the floor, and seats himself at the equally rickety chair. The payment _was_ to have been received here, but Takada had turned out to be a wily little traitor, who'd thought that it'd be a good idea to take more than his share and split.

Well, now he _is_ split, isn't he? Split open, even. Like a fruit.

Gunfire sounds just outside the door, but never makes it in.

Neither do the gunmen.

Eames almost regrets that; he'd like to see the carnage up close, to see Arthur dance that shadow-dance of his, liquid and swift and soundless - that is, soundless but for the screams of the fallen. He hasn't yet understood how, exactly, Arthur manages to evade _bullets_; when he'd asked, once, Arthur had merely looked away, demure as a bride, and had said something that managed to be both appallingly existential and wonderfully romantic, about harm not coming to that which does not exist. ("I exist only for you, Mr. Eames.") A pool of ever-growing blood widens behind Arthur, in a circle that isn't _quite_ concentric, and Eames wishes, idly, for a good whiskey. On the rocks.

Finally, the gunshots stop.

Arthur steps back. There's a man dangling from one of his hands, barely alive, that Arthur drags towards Eames, across the floor. A broad red stripe follows him.

"Would you look at that," Eames grins. "A red-carpet welcome."

"Gnuh," groans the man, as Arthur throws him onto the floor.

"Speak," says Arthur.

"S-s-so - " The man coughs wetly. "S-sorry, Mr. Eames. W-we didn't know - "

"Of course you didn't," Eames says, gently. "But Takada knew, didn't he?"

The man's eyes go wide.

"Very loyal of you, coming here to save his sorry arse. But, as you can see, he's dead." Eames gestures to Takada's corpse, splattered and bent at odd angles, like so much abstract art. "You're not. And you won't be, if you confirm what Takada _did_know."

The lackey doesn't say anything. His gaze is fixed on Takada, and he's pale with horror.

"_Speak_." Arthur reaches down, and wrenches the man's head back. "My master commands you to speak."

Eames still gets a little thrill when Arthur calls him 'master', childish as it is to be thrilled by such things. But it's entirely like being the owner of a magnificent piece of weaponry, or a perfectly-tamed jungle cat; Eames can't be blamed for _enjoying_ it. The way he enjoys it when Arthur looks at him, questioningly, and shifts his grip to the lackey's neck.

"Shall I break it, sir?"

Beautiful. Just - "Go ahead."

The man _thrashes_ to life. "_Iie! Onegai shimasu!_" He lapses into heavily accented English. "Please. P-please, Mr. Eames - "

"Speak," says Arthur, implacably. His hand tightens on the man's neck.

He _wheezes_. "I - I didn't know. Until today. And then it was too late - "

"I didn't ask you," enunciates Eames, slowly, "what _you_ knew. Did I?"

"Takada-san - he - he knew. He'd talked with the Portugese - "

"And?"

"Arranged f-for a double-swap."

"At what time?"

"Two hours after his meeting with you."

"So we have less than an hour," ponders Eames, "before the Portugese - or the Abecassis family, on _behalf_ of of the Portugese - deign to make an appearance. Am I right?"

"It is Abecassis. Alberto was - was the contact. Mr. Eames - "

"Let him go," Eames flicks his fingers, and Arthur drops his quarry, who falls to the ground, sniveling like a rat. "My dear boy," says Eames, to the lackey, "what's your name? And don't bother lying; my pretty pet here can smell lies. And he'll tear your throat out for them."

"M-my name is Uchida."

Arthur nods. Imperceptibly.

"Very well." Eames's chair creaks as he leans back in it; goodness, they need new furniture, around here. "You will go to your boss and tell him exactly what you told me."

The man closes his eyes. Anticipating his execution, most like, at the hands of Saito's disciplinary squad. Since he _will_ be telling the truth, albeit belatedly, he might even be allowed the privilege of killing himself. Hara-kiri has never gone out of fashion.

"You will tell Mr. Saito that I appreciate and honor the spirit of our initial agreement, which is why I am leaving with the full payment, as planned, and he will, in turn, receive the goods. As planned. You will tell him that I have forgiven this particular… mistake, but I will forgive no others, and I certainly cannot be expected to clean up his messes." Eames jerks his chin at Takada. "I'm leaving this here. As a mark of respect. I haven't had the body disemboweled, beheaded or put on display; he can send his nephew off with full honors."

"Thank you, Mr. Eames." Uchida opens his eyes, but they're a dead man's eyes, already dull with the knowledge of what is to come. If he looks calm, it is only because he knows that dying under Saito's protection will grant his family immunity, and financial support, besides. For life. It's one of the many reasons Eames appreciates Saito, and his handling of his organization. This uncharacteristic glitch aside.

"If he wishes to make it up to me, and to my father, then he will dispose of the Portugese. And those bodies, I _do_ want disemboweled. Beheaded. And put on display."

Uchida says nothing.

"Are we clear?"

"V-very. Clear. Thank you, again."

"Don't thank me, yet. Get back to base alive, and deliver your message, or your family - yes, I noticed your wedding ring - will have to deliver your message, instead." Eames tilts his head. "In pieces."

Arthur… shifts. Indicating that the time for the Abecassis's arrival is near.

When Arthur and Eames leave, Uchida is slumped on the floor, staring blindly at his own hands. At his ring, presumably.

Arthur stinks of blood. The number of corpses outside is… impressive, as it should be.

"Have any of your masters fucked you, before?" Eames asks, lightly.

"You are my first master, Mr. Eames."

Really? _Really._ "You've been trained for that sort of thing, though."

"I have been trained for _you_, Mr. Eames."

And if that isn't a sentence filled with fraught and compelling images, then Eames has never heard a single sentence worth anything, before. Why _hasn't_ he been fucking Arthur? He's already had him for three weeks. Three weeks of continuous, flawless service, and more kills per day than Eames can credit any of his captains with.

And while it _is_ rather fun to keep Arthur around as an incredibly well-armed and deadly decoration, it truly is a shame to keep that figure hidden. From Eames, anyway.

"It's time for a test drive," Eames drawls, and watches as Arthur doesn't flinch, or hesitate, or… well, show any change of expression, at all. Not that Eames _can_ tell what expression Arthur has, precisely, since all Eames can see of him are his eyes. Dark as always.

"Yes, Mr. Eames."

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**to be continued.**

(Only one more part to go!)

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